


Idle Hands

by Anonymous



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2019-09-05
Packaged: 2020-10-05 03:34:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20482178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Ignis catches a glimpse of Noctin flagrante delictoand, unfortunately for all parties involved, can’t stop thinking about it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Fill for the FFXV Kinkmeme. Abridged [prompt](https://ffxv-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/4747.html?thread=9899403#cmt9899403):
>
>> Ignis has never understood the appeal of masturbation. Maybe he's too busy, maybe he's just never bothered exploring himself, but one day he catches a glimpse of Noct in some new light and is like Oh Shit, He's Hot. Suddenly he is more turned on than he ever imagined was possible. 
>> 
>> So once he gets a moment to himself, Iggy decides to use this new material and try out this whole jerking off thing and he's pleasantly surprised at the results. 
>> 
>> And Noct walks in on him and things get interesting.
> 
>   
I’ve made some very minor changes to the fill since I first posted it, but if you prefer the original, you can find it on the Kinkmeme [here](https://ffxv-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/4747.html?thread=10125195#cmt10125195).
> 
> Briefly, I’d like to thank [mushydesserts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mushydesserts/pseuds/mushydesserts) for her good humor and company, her help in cleaning up a scene, and her tenacity in reminding me to post this story to AO3. Also, a shout-out to the two FFA nonnies who helped me get over a plot roadblock, and of course, many thanks to those nonnies who read and commented on this story while it was being posted to the Kinkmeme. Couldn't have done it without you!
> 
> Anyways, thanks for reading, and hope you enjoy!

His first mistake is to trust the day's forecast.

The weather in Insomnia is capricious at best, as fickle as the moods of the legendary Hydraean, and doubly so in the autumn. Ignis scarcely makes it a block from the Citadel before a threatening rumble shakes the heavens. By the time he pulls up to Noct's high-rise, the sky has opened up, and the rain is pouring down in sheets heavy enough to drown a fish. Not even an undignified dash from the parking garage to Noct’s building can spare his hair or his clothing, and his only consolation is that, even had he an umbrella, he wouldn’t have enough hands to handle it, laden down as he is with the day's groceries, pastries, and council reports.

“Whoa,” Noct says when he opens the door. His eyes travel up and down Ignis’s dripping frame before settling somewhere in the vicinity of Ignis’s collarbones. “Um. Wow.”

“Quite,” Ignis says, blinking the water from his eyes. When Noct doesn’t budge, he clears his throat. “Noct, if you would…”

“Oh, yeah. Right. Sorry,” Noct says, snapping out of his stupor. He snatches the bags from Ignis and disappears into the kitchen while Ignis toes off his sodden shoes. He leaves them outside to dry and wrings out his jacket as best he can in the hallway before hanging it on the coatrack by the door.

“Didn’t know it was coming down that hard outside,” Noct says when Ignis joins him in the kitchen. He’s in the middle of unpacking the groceries and fishes out a pack of mushrooms, nose wrinkling. Ignis hears him mutter, “Seriously?” before shoving it in the refrigerator. “So what’s the plan?” he says, straightening up.

Ignis pointedly retrieves the mushrooms, deposits them back on the counter, and rolls up his sleeves. “I was thinking a creamy fowl sauté today, with sheep’s milk and funguar—”

“Nuh-uh,” Noct says. “You can’t—you’re not cooking like _that_.”

Ignis blinks. “Like…?”

Noct, not meeting his eyes, gestures at him.

Ignis looks down at himself and is suddenly, and painfully, aware of the sight he must make, dripping rainwater in Noct’s kitchen, clothes and hair plastered uncomfortably to his skin. “Ah. Right,” he says, adjusting his glasses. “Might I bother you for a towel?”

“A towel?" Noct says. "No. I mean, yeah. But—go take a shower or something. We can order takeout.”

“I’m perfectly capable of cooking—”

“You’re gonna catch a cold,” Noct says. He casually reaches for the mushrooms and slides them out of Ignis’s reach. “Seriously, take a load off for a while.”

It is rather chilly, now that Noct’s mentioned it, and the thought of a hot shower and warm food prepared by hands other than his own is beginning to sound exquisite and significantly more important than winning today’s Battle of the Shrooms. “Well,” Ignis says, conceding defeat, “don’t mind if I do, then.”

“Yeah, like I ever mind,” Noct says, grinning as he shoves the mushrooms back into the fridge, battle won. “I’ll leave some clothes outside the bathroom for you and call for pizza.” When Ignis hesitates, he rolls his eyes. “Specs, just _go_. I can handle ordering pizza by myself, don’t you think?”

It’s a nice and thoughtful gesture, Ignis thinks later as he undresses in the restroom, even if it _is_ motivated by a desire to avoid eating vegetables. Only a year ago, Noct was moody, recalcitrant, and withdrawn on account of his father’s declining health, but lately, he’s been conducting himself in a manner that almost befits, well, a prince. His marks have been high, and while he invariably leaves the cooking to Ignis, he’s begun to clean his own apartment and to do his own laundry. It is, all in all, remarkable progress, especially in light of the fact that last year, Noct almost certainly would have expired in this very building, surrounded by heaps of his own trash, were it not for Ignis’s intervention.

That, of course, does not mean Noct is on top of everything, which Ignis realizes when he turns on the showerhead and notices that there’s no soap to be found in the restroom.

“Noct?” he calls.

There’s no answer; either his words are lost to the spray, or Noct is on the phone. Sighing, Ignis rebuttons his shirt. The water’s still cold, so he leaves it running as he pads out of the restroom, past the promised bundle of clothing, and towards the storage closet at the end of the hall.

And that’s when he hears it.

It’s a soft sound, slick and wet, accompanied by quiet gasps and sharp, stifled groans. Ignis’s brow furrows in consternation when he realizes it’s coming from Noct’s room, and before he can stop himself, he makes his second mistake of the day: He looks.

The door is shut but for a small crack, but even that small window is enough to ruin him. The lights are on, and Noct is sprawled on his bed, head tipped back and eyes closed. His cheeks are flushed pink, and his trousers are unbuttoned, pushed midway down his thighs so as to allow his hand enough space to dip beneath the band of his underwear. For a split-second, Ignis can’t quite grasp what he’s seeing—but then, as Noct’s hand strokes down and he catches a glimpse of Noct’s cock, wet and glistening in the light, understanding dawns on him with a dizzying lurch.

_Oh_, he thinks faintly, reaching out to catch himself on the wall. Noct is _masturbating_.

It’s an activity that Ignis knows about theoretically but has never witnessed, nor personally indulged in. Although he’s had his fair share of morning wood and nocturnal emissions, he’s never “rubbed one out,” as Gladio might put it. For one thing, he’s always found the act to be unseemly and indecent, a waste of time and cleaning supplies. For another, arousal rarely strikes him, and when it does, it’s more easily ignored than taken into hand.

It’s more difficult (_Harder_, his brain supplies unhelpfully) to ignore now. His groin feels hot and heavy, and he can’t help but lean forward as Noct slips a hand beneath his button-down, rucking it up to reveal smooth, pale skin. And then, when Noct arches up and _whimpers_, Ignis’s thoughts go ragged.

He should leave, he knows. He should turn on his heels, return to the restroom, and promptly forget everything he’s seen. It’s wildly inappropriate to be standing here in the hallway, outside of Noct’s room (outside of his _prince’s_ room, he reminds himself desperately), watching him masturbate.

He _should_, but he doesn’t. He can’t. Not even when Noct’s gasps grow louder and headier, nor when his hand speeds up and his hips begin to rock upwards in short, frantic thrusts. Ignis watches, mesmerized by the expression of pleasure on Noct’s face and the harsh, desperate sounds escaping from his throat.

And that is his third, and most fatal, mistake of the evening, because as he stands there, rooted in place, he hears Noct grit out, “Ig—”

No. _No._

Snapping out of his daze, Ignis flees back down the hall to the restroom, soap all but forgotten. Locking the door, he undresses quickly, fingers working shakily at the buttons of his shirt. The water is hot by now, but he twists the knob all the way back to cold and ducks in under the spray.

It’s a crude method, but effective. Even so, he finds he can’t clear his mind of Noct thrusting into his fist, of his body arching off the bed, his mouth open, throat working, and eyes squeezed shut. Ignis’s hand twitches towards his cock, but with a groan of frustration he forces it away and wills himself to focus instead on the shock of the cold water pummeling his body.

He _can’t_. Not while thinking of Noct. Not while thinking of _his prince_.

He stays in the shower until his erection subsides, then shuts off the water and leans his head against the tiles, shivering. After several minutes, he hears a tentative knock on the door.

“Hey, Specs. You fall asleep in there?”

Ignis clears his throat. “Apologies,” he says, and is surprised at how steady and normal his voice sounds. “I’ll be but a moment.”

“Cool. App says pizza's out for delivery.”

Ignis takes a deep breath. “Understood.”

When he finally returns to the kitchen, Noct is lounging on the couch, feet kicked up on the coffee table as he types on his phone. It’s a scene of complete normalcy, and yet Ignis can’t help but feel off-kilter, especially when he notices that, while Noct still hasn’t changed out of his school uniform, his tie is askew, his trousers are creased from his earlier attentions, and his shirt is riding up a tad on his stomach. Ignis swiftly makes a tactical decision to busy himself with the dishes and cutlery before he can spend too much time studying the sliver of skin showing beneath Noct’s shirt. Or contemplating what that skin might feel like under his palms.

He avoids contemplating it so much that he completely misses Noct’s question. “—ey, Eos to Specs.”

Ignis blinks. “Apologies,” he says, setting down the glass he was washing and turning about. “Could you repeat that?”

Noct gives him a strange look. “I _said_, Gladio’s in the neighborhood and wants to know if he can stop by for dinner.”

“Ah. Yes, of course,” Ignis says, pushing his spectacles up his nose. “You ordered enough pizza, I trust?”

“Yeah,” Noct says, then pauses. “You okay? You seem kinda…”

“I’m fine,” Ignis says quickly. Too quickly, if Noct’s frown is anything to go by.

Thankfully, before Noct can pursue the topic, the pizza arrives. Ignis leaves to retrieve it and to get a much-needed breath of fresh air. By the time he returns, the moment has passed, and he spends the rest of the evening studiously avoiding Noct’s eyes.

* * *

Two days later, Ignis is forced to acknowledge that his … that these _feelings_ aren’t a one-off fluke, conjured up by unhealthy levels of Ebony consumption or his gradually accruing sleep debt. Neither of those would explain his sudden interest in the soft cut of Noct’s jaw, the growing breadth of his shoulders, or the trim lines of his waist. More to the point, they don’t explain the vivid dreams Ignis has been having since the Incident, the last of which ends with him jolting awake Saturday morning, gasping, to the fleeting fantasy of Noct swallowing him down.

It takes him a second to orient himself and to get his breathing under control, after which he checks the clock on his nightstand. It winks back at him, bright and cheery: 4:56. Groaning, Ignis presses the heels of his palms into his eyes. Then he flips off his covers, stares at the wet spot staining the front of his boxer briefs, and drops his head back down onto his pillow.

This is wrong. Inappropriate. Noct is _seventeen_, for goodness’ sake, and still in high school. Moreover, he’s the prince. And Ignis—Ignis is his advisor. His Majesty himself entrusted Noct to his care when Ignis was six; he’s to take care of Noct, to stand by him and advise him, not to… not to…

His phone rings. Ignis swipes off the alarm, then stumbles out of bed and to the restroom, where he washes away the sticky evidence of his crime beneath a spray of cold water.

It’s Saturday, which means Ignis is to bring Noct to the Citadel for the morning session of today’s council meetings. Noct is predictably still abed when Ignis arrives at his apartment. Just as well, as it allows Ignis some precious time to collect himself. He sets about brewing the coffee, allowing the nutty and tantalizing aroma to calm his mind as he works. Then, slipping his mask into place, he raps on the door of Noct’s bedroom.

“Noct?” he says. Upon receiving no response, he knocks more insistently.

“Mrhhhhf.”

“It’s Saturday, so unless you’d like to keep the council waiting, I suggest you rouse yourself.”

Ignis hears a muffled groan that sends an entirely inappropriate message to his groin. “Go ‘way.”

There’s no way around it. Ignis takes a deep breath, steeling himself. Then he opens the door.

_Do not stare. Do not—_

He stares.

It isn’t as if he hasn’t noticed that Noct has been growing into a handsome young man. The papers and gossip magazines chatter about him incessantly, after all, proclaiming him a “teenage heartthrob” or a “sizzling Noct-out,” and Ignis has always known Noct to be exceedingly easy on the eyes. But before the Incident, he never once considered Noct in a sexual light, either as an object of lust or someone who lusted after others. He’s always simply been Noct—his prince and closest friend, his charge, his duty and, in so many ways, his life’s purpose.

Now, greeted by the sight of Noct’s naked back from where his shirt rode up during the night, Ignis’s throat goes dry. His eyes follow the teasing dip of his waist and trace the raised flesh of the scar carved across his skin. He’s halfway to the bed, captivated by the thought of touching it, smoothing it with his lips and tongue, before he catches himself. With an effort, he redirects his feet towards the windows and yanks open the blinds with more force than is necessary.

A whine of dismay comes from the tangle of limbs and blankets behind him. “Five more minutes?” Noct says, voice hoarse from sleep.

“I’m afraid not,” Ignis says, thankful his voice doesn’t waver. He tries to focus on the skyline and not Noct’s reflection in the glass until he collects himself, then turns and tugs at the pillow Noct has pulled over his head. “Chop, chop, breakfast is waiting.”

After a few seconds of tug-of-war, Noct finally relinquishes his grip and flops over. “Fine. I’m up, I’m up!”

As Noct drags himself through his lengthy morning routine, Ignis decidedly does not think about Noct naked and wet in the shower. Instead, he occupies himself with cooking breakfast: two omelettes, one for each of them, with ham, cheese, and diced tomatoes, funguar, and onions, so finely minced such that even Noct can’t possibly complain. The coffee does wonders for his mind, and as he sets the table and sits down, he skims through the morning papers, pen in hand, circling items of interest for Noct, which span from articles that concern matters related in the council reports to upcoming video game conferences. When he finishes that task, he pulls up his phone, scrolls through his emails, and finds a pdf titled _Rules and Regulations for Crownsguard Employees_. He’s partway through the section that addresses fraternization and permissible relationships before he turns off the screen and presses his fingers to his eyes, thinking, _What am I doing?_

He remains like that until Noct returns, toweling his hair dry.

“Headache?” Noct says as he joins Ignis at the table. He begins to shovel the omelette into his mouth, heedless of the drop of water trailing its way down the side of his neck.

“A minor migraine, I’m afraid,” Ignis says, clearing his throat. He shifts in his chair. “Nothing a few painkillers won’t fix.”

“Ever think maybe you should just lighten up and get more sleep?”

At Noct’s pointed look, Ignis forces a pained smile. “And allow you to sleep in?” he says lightly. “I think not.”

Noct grumbles something unpleasant under his breath at that but polishes off the rest of his breakfast in short order. When he’s finished, Ignis gathers up the dishes and deposits them in the sink. He waits until Noct leaves to fix his hair. Then, when the coast is clear, he reaches down to surreptitiously adjust his slacks, hissing in guilty relief.

* * *

Unfortunately, the situation downstairs doesn’t improve much over the next week. Despite Ignis’s hopes that his hormones will run their course and leave him well enough alone, just as they had when he was a teenager, he catches himself daydreaming about Noct incessantly, which is equal parts irritating and horrifying. During university lectures, he remembers Noct beside him, leaning in over a calculus textbook, allowing Ignis a marvelous view of his throat and a heady whiff of his cologne. At council meetings, he recalls Noct in a well-fitted suit and tie, cheek propped against his fist and eyelids half-lidded in boredom as he twirls a pen between dexterous fingers. Even the training hall is rife with danger; whenever he stops to catch his breath in between his forms, he finds himself fantasizing idly about the way Noct’s shirt, dark with perspiration, clings to his skin whenever Ignis goes to pick him up after Gladio’s weapons practice.

The evenings are even worse. In those drowsy, vulnerable moments between climbing into bed and falling asleep, he wonders about matters that almost certainly don’t concern him. Is Noct seeing someone? (He is about that age, and he’s become rather close to that Prompto lad.) Has he had sex before? (Astrals, he hopes Noct has been using condoms.) Does he actually want Ignis, or was Ignis simply a convenient body for his imagination to latch onto that one evening? (Noct’s behavior towards him doesn’t seem to have changed even after that fateful evening, which might suggest the latter, but …)

It’s those unguarded realms of sleep, however, that try him the most. Before the week is over, he’s quite certain he’s dreamed of Noct in every conceivable position and in varying states of undress. There’s even one particularly shameful dream that involves him walking into the throne room to find Noct lounging naked on the throne, Gladio standing fully-clothed at the bottom of the steps in a chain and collar and the statues of the Lucii arrayed around them, stony-faced and judgmental; Noct beckons Ignis forward, and Ignis wakes to his hips rutting awkwardly against the mattress and the thought of sinking to his knees before the throne, Noct’s fingers twining through his hair.

“This is ridiculous,” he says hoarsely to his ceiling. Then he makes for his now customary cold shower.

He touches himself just the once, late one night while browsing LuciXXX on his personal laptop. He’s never been one for pornography, but there’s a first time for everything, and he reasons that if he can redirect his attentions in a more… suitable direction, perhaps he can find some relief. But when he reaches down to palm himself through his sweatpants, his mind substitutes Noct and himself for the actors in the video, and all he can think of is how it might feel to have Noct’s legs wrapped around his waist and what it would be like to press into Noct’s body. He has to stop almost as soon as his hand settles over the shape of his erection, hard and hot beneath his pants. Then, with a shaky breath, Ignis closes his laptop, sets it aside, and covers his eyes with his forearm, waiting for sleep to claim him.

His only consolation is that Noct appears to be none the wiser as regards his feelings. And Ignis, for his part, fully intends to keep it that way. What he wants is irrelevant. And what Noct wants…

It doesn’t bear contemplating. Impropriety aside, Noct isn’t his to have or to keep. He’s destined for more, a political marriage befitting his station as prince and future king, and to tease Noct with the possibility of something lasting between the two of them is unthinkably cruel.

No. Far better to let any attraction that Noct might feel towards him fade quietly away.

And if that thought sends a pang through Ignis’s chest—well, time heals all wounds.

* * *

His well-intentioned plan is foiled the following Tuesday—and by Gladio, no less.  
  
“_Finally_,” Noct says when Ignis arrives at the training hall. He’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, stripped down to a dark form-fitting t-shirt that does little to hide his developing frame. “You took your time.”  
  
Ignis pries his eyes away from Noct’s chest. Really, he’s been putting on quite a bit of muscle lately, courtesy of a Gladio’s strength-training regime. “My apologies,” he says. “The council session ran late.”  
  
It isn’t even a lie, though Ignis has recently been delaying his visits to the hall so as to minimize the amount of time he has to spend staring at a sweat-damp and panting Noctis Lucis Caelum. It doesn’t do to tempt himself; he has enough trouble keeping Noct out of his mind when they’re apart, and giving his brain more material to work with is clearly inadvisable.  
  
Gladio, the fiend, doesn’t appear to share his sentiments, however. “Nuh-uh,” he says as Noct stands and starts brushing himself off. “We’re not done yet. Iggy, catch!”  
  
“Says who?” Noct grumbles as Ignis, moving on autopilot, snatches the wooden staff from the air.  
  
“Says your Shield. You two, practice bout.”  
  
Noct groans. “Thought my Shield was s’posed to protect me, not make me drop dead from exhaustion.”  
  
“Can it. You’re not gonna die.”  
  
Ignis sighs even as he hefts the weapon, testing the weight of it in his palms. “Gladio, really. Is this truly necessary?”  
  
“Yeah, it is.” Gladio says, unmoved. He crosses his arms over his chest. “I haven’t seen you spar in ages since you started training with the Glaives. We’ve got to start practicing together if we’re gonna be fighting together, don’t you think?”  
  
Ignis’s brows draw together. What Gladio says is reasonable enough, but he isn’t attired appropriately for a go in the proverbial ring, dressed as he is for a day in the office. Not to mention, there are other more pressing reasons why he wishes to avoid close quarters combat with Noct—reasons he can’t exactly admit to out loud. “Gladio, I’m afraid—”  
  
Gladio bares his teeth, amused. “‘Fraid Princess here’ll show you up? Gone too soft behind the desk?”  
  
Ignis clenches his jaw, fixing Gladio with a glare. The problem isn’t so much a fear of having gone soft as it is possibly going _hard_, Ignis wants to respond acerbically, but he bites his tongue. “Very well,” he says icily, taking the bait. He leans the staff against the wall and begins undoing the buttons on his shirt cuffs. “Noct?”  
  
Noct’s face falls. “Ughh. Fine.”  
  
“Attaboy,” Gladio says. He slaps Noct on the back and deftly steps out of range of Noct’s retaliatory swipe. “First to three. Keep it clean.”  
  
Clean, Ignis thinks as he takes up position and eyes the sweaty outline of Noct’s pectorals through his shirt, may be difficult.  
  
It’s a special hell reserved just for him, though Ignis supposes he deserves it after all the inappropriate thoughts he’s been having about Noct over the past two weeks. The only mercy is that Gladio handed him a staff and not his signature daggers; the latter would have forced him to engage with Noct in close quarters—and for an instant, Ignis can’t help but entertain the brief fantasy of the two of them tangled up on the gym floor, weapons and clothes strewn about them while they kiss, bodies joined—but polearms are designed to create space and function optimally at a distance. If he plays this correctly, he should be able to stay out of Noct’s reach for the entire bout and to avoid any sort of physical contact that might exacerbate his … problem.  
  
Noct, of course, isn’t privy to any of Ignis’s thoughts. Thankfully. But it also means that he has no such compunction against physical contact. As soon as Gladio calls for the bout to start, Noct closes the distance between the two of them with a speed that belies his earlier grousing. One moment, he’s slouching a respectable five meters away, and the next, his sword’s flying through the air, the space around him folding together with a crackle of sparks. Recognizing the warp-strike for what it is, Ignis twists to the side and brings down his staff hard. It lands flat across the back of Noct’s shoulders as he rematerializes, sending him sprawling to the floor.  
  
“_Shit_.”  
  
“Saw that coming.” Grimly satisfied, Ignis goes for another tap. Best to end this quickly.  
  
Unfortunately, Noct rolls away at the last moment, collecting his sword from the ground as he passes over it. He scrambles upright and ghosts through Ignis’s next few strikes in quick succession. Spectral blue afterimages waver in the air before fading.  
  
“Impressive,” Ignis says, disengaging. Even the Glaives can’t phase, and while it’s been said His Majesty has the ability, Ignis has never witnessed it firsthand before today.  
  
Noct’s grin is fierce and savage as he swipes his bangs from his forehead. “Yeah? Plenty more where that came from.”  
  
Bravado really shouldn’t be quite so attractive or endearing. “Oh, I’m sure,” Ignis says dryly.  
  
But true to word, Noct pulls out all the tricks from his book after that. Most of them are familiar, but his execution has improved markedly. His attacks are more precise, and he moves with a speed that rivals that of the Glaives. More than once, Ignis finds himself on the defensive, springing away to Noct’s groan of frustration. Eventually, he drops a point when Noct phases through a strike and lunges through one of his distracting holograms with a warp-aided riposte.  
  
“What’d I say?” Noct says smugly as the tip of his sword grazes Ignis’s chest. “That one’s mine.” Then, eyes widening as Ignis’s staff jabs at his throat, “Whoa!”  
  
From the sidelines, Gladio growls, “Get your head in the game, Noct!”  
  
“Easy for you to say, you’re not—_dammit_—” Their weapons collide with another clack. Noct staggers out of reach again before Ignis can land a hit. “Not gonna go easy on me, huh, Specs?”  
  
Ignis pushes his glasses up his nose. “And deny either of us the satisfaction of a bout well-fought? I think not.”  
  
Noct huffs out a laugh. “Gods, you’re worse than Gladio.”  
  
“Oi, less yapping, more fighting!”  
  
Noct rolls his eyes. “I take that back,” he mutters, then launches himself into a flurry of attacks. Ignis retreats even as he meets each blow with his staff, but on the seventh, Noct lunges in far enough to catch the midpoint of Ignis’s staff in the crook of his hilt. For a moment, Noct pushes, trying to shove forward with all of his weight. Then the pressure disappears, and Ignis staggers forward. Blue wisps brush against his skin, crackling with energy. Another phase. Where—?  
  
Movement to his left. _There!_  
  
He spins and just barely manages to catch the side of Noct’s ankle with his staff as the sword comes down.  
  
The blade misses him, but Noct’s body does not. They crash to the ground, and the impact jolts through Ignis’s bones as their weapons go clattering away across the gym floor.  
  
“Crap, didn’t mean to do that,” Noct gasps. He’s splayed on top of Ignis, eyes bright and chest jumping with breathless laughter, the ends of his hair tickling Ignis’s face. He’s sweaty, warm, solid, and _close_, hips nestled between Ignis’s legs, and Ignis, horrified, feels a small thrill of arousal curl in his gut.  
  
No. This cannot be happening.  
  
“Think that counts as a point?” Noct’s saying, oblivious. His breath puffs across Ignis’s cheek, and Ignis wants to groan.  
  
“Noct,” he says, hoping he doesn’t sound too desperate. “If you would—”  
  
“I know you got my ankle first, but how ‘bout you tell Gladio it was three-two instead of—instead of—” Noct shifts, which causes the problem to worsen. Dramatically. He freezes. Then his eyes widen, his face goes red, and he says, “Uh.”  
  
Ignis doesn’t respond for fear of what his voice might sound like. Instead, he tips his head back, closes his eyes, and prays for Ramuh to strike him dead.  
  
Ramuh doesn’t answer his prayers, but Gladio does, ironically enough. It must only be a few seconds—an agonizing eternity—before he ambles up to where the two of them are sprawled on the ground. Then, like a switch has been flipped, Noct jerks away as if Ignis is a particularly unappetizing vegetable. Mumbling something about needing to hit the showers, he takes off towards the locker room without so much as a backwards glance.  
  
“Huh,” Gladio says. He glances down at Ignis, sitting up now with one leg folded so as to conceal his insistent arousal, and raises a knowing eyebrow. “Guess that’s puberty for ya.”  
  
Breathing hard, Ignis doesn’t deign to reply, senses still awash with memories of Noct—the smell of his sweat, heady and masculine; the solid heat of his body fitted against his own; and the hot weight of Noct’s own erection awakening against his thigh.

* * *

That evening, they don’t speak of what transpired in the training hall.  
  
Ignis waits for Noct outside by the car in the chill autumn air of the approaching dusk, browsing his schedule on his phone for the umpteenth time. _Council session, dance lesson, magic class, combat drills, PLSC 20301, haircut…_ The words scroll past his eyes, but he pays them no heed. Rather, he’s more occupied with what he’ll say to Noct—Noct, who is right now, perhaps, wet and slippery with soap, touching himself in a locker room shower to thoughts of Ignis. Noct, who felt so good, so _perfect_ lying there on top of him, alight with exertion and laughter, breath hot and moist against his throat.  
  
Noct, who is seventeen, still in high school, and heir to the kingdom of Lucis. The prince. (_His_ prince.)  
  
Ignis pockets his phone, letting out a shaky breath. Overhead, the Citadel looms over him, lights glaring in silent judgment.  
  
He’ll have to apologize, of course, though for what exactly, he’s uncertain. For making Noct uncomfortable. For his lack of propriety. For wanting beyond his station. For, for…  
  
Approaching footsteps interrupt his thoughts. Ignis looks up.  
  
“Hey.” Noct, hair still damp from the shower, sweeps past him. His shoulders are tense, and he doesn’t meet Ignis’s eyes as he yanks open the rear door and piles in. “Ready when you are.”  
  
Ignis, briefly disconcerted at how strongly he reacts to Noct’s clean, fresh scent, shakes himself. “Right,” he says, getting into the driver’s seat. “Off we go.”  
  
He pulls out of the parking lot. The car’s interior is quiet but for the rush of the traffic, the distant honking of cars and blaring sirens. Ignis steals glances through the rearview mirror at Noct, who’s staring out the window, cheek resting against his hand as the city lights play softly across his features. He looks achingly beautiful in the half-light, uncertain and vulnerable. Ignis’s heart throbs (as do other, more obstinate parts of his body), and sudden shame washes through him. Here he is, thinking only of assuaging his own guilt rather than alleviating Noct’s embarrassment.  
  
They stop at a traffic light. Ignis tightens his grip on the steering wheel and takes a deep breath. “You needn’t feel ashamed,” he begins.  
  
Noct jerks and makes a noise like he’s being force-fed a carrot. “Specs—”  
  
“It’s a perfectly healthy and natural reaction—”  
  
Noct groans. “Can we not talk about this?” he says loudly.  
  
The light turns green. Ignis pulls his eyes back to the road and eases the car into motion. “Of course, Your Highness.”  
  
Noct, reduced to a dark shape shrinking in on himself in the backseat, doesn’t respond.


	2. Chapter 2

Ignis gives him space.  
  
He tells himself that he’s acting only out of consideration for Noct’s own feelings. Noct is clearly distracted by his presence. While it’s impossible for two people to completely avoid each other in a one-bedroom apartment—even one as spacious as Noct’s—Noct makes a good effort. Whenever Ignis is in the kitchen, Noct finds an excuse to be in his bedroom or out on the balcony. When Ignis inquires after his schoolwork, he receives only mumbled, monosyllable answers in response. Any attempts at small talk over breakfast or supper fizzle out as soon as they begin, and neither of them seems able to maintain eye contact for more than a second.  
  
It pains him, but perhaps… perhaps it’s for the best, Ignis thinks one evening as he asks Gladio over text to escort Noct home after next week’s training sessions. This way, Noct can focus on his schoolwork; he can manage on his own for a few nights, surely. His living habits have improved tremendously over the past year, and he can always order takeout for supper if push comes to shove. It’ll be a good test of his independence.  
  
(The decision has nothing, of course, to do with his own feelings. This is about Noct. That it might give Ignis time to build up his walls again, to forget about the heat and smell and feel of Noct’s body against his own—)  
  
His phone buzzes. Ignis draws in a shaky breath, confirms Gladio’s assent, and switches off his lights.  
  
When he informs Noct of the change in schedule over breakfast on Saturday, Noct glances up, meeting Ignis’s eyes for the first time in days. “What? Why?”  
  
Ignis clears his throat. “It’s unfortunate timing, but I have several midterms next week,” he says, gathering up their plates and depositing them in the sink. “I’ll need the evenings to brush up on the material.”  
  
It’s not even a lie. While he’s confident in his ability to ace his exams without studying, a little more reading can’t hurt.  
  
“Oh,” Noct says. There’s a silence. “Um. You’re still gonna be around for Friday’s game night though—right?”  
  
Ignis scrubs at the dishes. “I’m afraid not. I have a paper due Monday that needs revision.”  
  
“Oh.”  
  
“Gladio will be here, however, and I’ll make sure to stock your pantry with snacks and drinks before then.”  
  
“Mm.”  
  
“You’ll hardly notice my absence. As I recall, you spend most of those evenings glued to the television screen with Prompto.”  
  
"I… yeah, I guess.”  
  
“I’ll still see you in the mornings,” Ignis reassures him.  
  
“Right,” Noct says.

* * *

There’s a saying that absence makes the heart grow fonder, and Ignis finds, to his chagrin, that it’s absolutely true—though he supposes that if one were striving for accuracy, the heart isn’t the only organ that grows fonder.  
  
There’s a photograph of Noct in the Thursday tabloids, a candid shot of his prince and Prompto at the arcade after school. The lighting is terrible, of course, and the image is grainy at best—possibly taken with a phone—but it’s serviceable enough. They’re in the midst of a shooter game, judging by the pistols in their hands, and Noct’s exchanging an easy grin with Prompto, elbow jutted out to catch Prompto in the ribs. His school uniform’s disheveled, the top two buttons of his shirt undone in the crowded, warm interior of the arcade; his tie is loose, his shirt is untucked and rumpled, and Ignis imagines slipping behind him, arms around his waist, burying his nose in the crook of Noct’s shoulder. He would breathe deep, let his mouth fall open, hot against the side of Noct’s throat, and from there, it’s easy enough to slide into the fantasy of Noct twisting to catch his lips in a kiss, hands tugging insistently at the bottom of Ignis’s shirt, slipping a thigh between his legs—  
  
Ignis burns his tongue on his coffee and resolutely turns the page. It’s indecent to be thinking such things about the crown prince, he chides himself, and in public, no less.  
  
He takes another sip of coffee, more carefully this time, and flips the page back over.  
  
It’s only been nine days since that disaster of a training session, but it feels like months have passed since Noct has been so unguarded in his presence. Guiltily studying the open expression on Noct’s face, Ignis finds himself longing for the easy familiarity of their past: Noct tugging his specs down his nose, or barking out a surprised laugh at one of his puns, or even leaning over his shoulder to sniff at the plumes of steam rising from a pot only to groan at the vegetables bobbing in the stock.  
  
It's a more wistful sort of fantasy than the ones he’s been having recently, but the pang in his chest is no less keen for the difference.  
  
A sudden shadow falls over his table. “We need to talk.”  
  
Ignis can’t help but start. “Gladio,” he says. Hoping his blush isn’t quite as visible as it feels, he pushes aside the newspaper, quickly composing himself as he motions to the chair opposite him. “Something troubling you?”  
  
“Yeah, I’ll say.” Gladio sits down and gives him a hard look before his eyes catch on the front page of the newspaper. His eyebrows shoot up. “Tabloids, Iggy? Never pegged you for the type.” He picks up the paper and begins reading. “‘Straight-shot or not? Hotter than a two-crown pistol, HRH Noctis Lucis Caelum is caught skipping school to shoot ‘em up with alleged boyfriend Prompto Argentum—’”  
  
Ignis snatches the paper away from him. “Yes, well,” he says, hoping he doesn’t sound too flustered, “I like to keep apprised of Noct’s public image from time to time.”  
  
Gladio snorts, but he seems amused. “You’re gonna put his PR team out of a job.”  
  
“Hardly,” Ignis says, rolling up the paper and slipping it back into his messenger bag. (Not to keep, of course; he intends to put it in the nearest recycling receptacle on his way out.) When Gladio doesn’t respond and just leans back, head tilted at a slight angle and arms crossed over his chest, Ignis says, “Is there something else you wanted to speak with me about aside from my choice of reading?”  
  
“Yeah,” Gladio says. “You and Noct.”  
  
Ignis’s heart skips a beat. “Yes?” he says, as casually as he can manage.  
  
Gladio doesn’t respond—not immediately—simply studies him, narrow-eyed and suspicious, a finger tapping restlessly against his tricep. Ignis, struck by the nauseating sensation that he’s staring down the gullet of a behemoth, tries not to look away.  
  
After a few seconds—surely, it can’t be more than that, though it feels like hours—Gladio breaks, eyes sliding away to focus on the air over Ignis’s shoulder. He heaves out a long sigh through his nose. “Look, you two been having it out again?”  
  
Ignis reminds himself to breathe. “Pardon me?”  
  
“He’s been difficult all week,” Gladio says. “I couldn’t get him to focus on Tuesday. At first, I thought it was maybe something to do with his His Majesty again, but”—he shrugs—“when I pushed… he thinks you’re pissed at him.”  
  
That brings Ignis up short, even through his giddy relief. “What?”  
  
Gladio nods. “Yeah. Then he skipped yesterday’s training session and canceled tomorrow’s game night.”  
  
Noct had—? “I wasn’t aware,” Ignis says. The nausea returns, this time tinged with guilt at the suspicion that he’s made a gross miscalculation. “I’ll speak to him, of course.”  
  
“Good,” Gladio says and frowns as if he wants to say more. Thankfully, Ignis’s phone goes off at that very instant, signaling the end of his lunch break, and he takes the opportunity to escape before Gladio can inquire any further.

* * *

Later, when Ignis is about to head home for the evening after sitting for his exams, he texts Noct for the first time in days.  
  
_Noct, you do understand I’m not angry at you?_  
  
The message is immediately tagged as having been read. Ellipses appear, then disappear. Sighing, Ignis starts up his car and is just about ready to pull out of the parking lot when his phone buzzes.  
  
_Yeah, exams, I get it._ A beat. _They go well?_  
  
It’s not the response Ignis hoped for, but it’s a start. _Exceedingly._  
  
_Wouldn’t expect any less from you._  
  
Ignis pauses, then writes, _Gladio tells me you cancelled game night._  
  
_Prompto had plans with his parents._  
  
_I see._ Ignis isn’t entirely convinced Noct is telling the truth, but there’s no easy way to verify; while he has Prompto’s contact information courtesy of the Crownsguard, he’s hardly on texting terms with the boy. (The boy, he thinks, who is the same age as Noct, whom he is currently lusting after.)  
  
Ignis types, _Well, do make sure you attend training with Gladio tomorrow._  
  
_K,_ Noct replies.  
  
His phone falls silent, the screen fading to black. Ignis dawdles for a few minutes longer just in case, but when it becomes clear that Noct has no more to say to him, he pulls out of the parking lot and drives home.

* * *

The following day, Ignis decides enough is enough: he must make amends—and properly, in person, so that there’s no room for Noct to doubt his sincerity.  
  
It’s late in the afternoon when he pulls up unannounced to Noct’s apartment. Noct is at the gym with Gladio, which leaves Ignis a good hour and a half to prepare his apologies. First are the pastries he baked in the Citadel’s kitchen, made from sweet potatoes from Leide and berries from Tenebrae. He cools them in the fridge, then begins cooking supper, meatballs seasoned with Galadhan spices; he can’t bring himself to forego the vegetables, but he minces them into small chunks and mixes them in well with the meat before dumping the ingredients into the pressure cooker and pouring some rice into the steamer. Then, while everything cooks, he busies himself with tidying up the living space.  
  
It’s as much an apology as everything else he’s doing today. It’s been a while since he’s cleaned the apartment, on account of Noct’s improved living habits, and he hopes that Noct will recognize the gesture for what it means.  
  
_I apologize for distancing myself and for pushing you away. I have no excuse; I’ve been remiss in my duties. Please forgive me._  
  
The common area fortunately doesn’t take too long to freshen up. There are stray wrappers, Cup Noodle containers, and soda cans littered about the living room, no doubt yesterday’s victims—canceling game night did not, Ignis notes, stop Noct from consuming the snacks Ignis bought him for the very occasion—but it’s otherwise spotless. Ignis finishes the living room and the kitchen in short time, then moves onto the bathroom, and only when he’s done dithering over the kitchen pantry does he find himself hesitating outside of Noct’s bedroom.  
  
It’s not forbidden territory. After all, he’s cleaned it in the past, and the door is wide-open in any case, allowing Ignis a perfect view of the messy interior. Books and clothes are strewn about the floor, the wastebasket is full, and Noct’s bed is unmade, the blanket dragging on the floorboards. Not the disaster zone of yesteryear, thank heavens, but if any room in this apartment is in need of actual tidying, it’s this one. And yet…  
  
A memory, long suppressed, floats to the forefront of his mind: Noct, arching off the bed, heels digging into the mattress. _"Ig—"_  
  
Ignis takes a deep breath and counts to ten. Then he sets to work.  
  
It’s appalling how enthusiastically his body responds to the familiar scent of Noct’s bedroom. Still, Ignis tries his best to be perfunctory about the operation. Books and comics go on the shelves, dirty clothes into the laundry hamper, miscellaneous garbage into another trash bag. He fluffs the blankets, straightens the bed, changes the pillowcase.  
  
This isn’t about him, he repeats to himself as he works. It’s about Noct, making certain that Noct knows that Ignis didn’t, _doesn’t_, mean to treat him any differently. That whatever is lying between them doesn’t change anything. That Ignis will stand by him as long as Noct will have him.  
  
And it almost works, the constant mantra, right up until Ignis goes to empty the wastebasket and pauses, frowning down at the precarious mountain of tissues inside.  
  
A cold, perhaps? But when Ignis last saw him, Noct seemed to be in perfect health. And surely Gladio would have mentioned to him if Noct was, if he was—  
  
The realization slams into Ignis the instant he spots the used condom peeking out from behind a Kleenex.  
  
_Ah._  
  
The wastebasket wobbles as Ignis sits down heavily on the edge of Noct’s mattress, lightheaded.  
  
It’s ridiculous, of course. It shouldn’t shock him. For heaven’s sake, he’s witnessed Noct masturbating first-hand. It stands to reason that he does so regularly and maybe even has sex from time to time. But with whom is he—? Prompto?  
  
For a second, all Ignis can think about is Noct, naked and kneeling on the bed, a light sheen of sweat coating his chest; one hand rests against the small of Prompto’s back while the other grips his hip, holding him steady as he rocks into him, grunting with each thrust.  
  
Ignis groans and tears off his spectacles. He squeezes his eyes shut as he presses the heel of his palm against his cock, hot and aching between his legs, and gasps at the pressure. He can’t—this is—  
  
This isn’t going to work, he realizes with a sudden, horrifying clarity. He can’t continue to neglect himself like this, propriety be damned, not when doing so hasn’t curbed his feelings at all. If anything, it’s only exacerbated the problem if something as sordid as a _used condom_ in Noct’s wastebasket is enough to elicit this reaction.  
  
And he can’t face Noct, not like this. He can hardly assure Noct that everything is normal between them when he can’t bring himself to even meet Noct’s eyes, much less touch him, simply because he’s in a … a state.  
  
Shuddering out a breath, Ignis checks the clock. 5:27. Noct won’t be home for another half-hour. It’s enough time, he thinks as he fumbles open his belt and unbuttons his trousers with trembling fingers. He doubts he’ll last for more than a few minutes, in any case, and it’ll be just the once, he tells himself. He drags down the zipper and slips his hand inside his pants and beneath the waistband of his underwear. Just the once.  
  
The first brush of his fingers against his cock is as much a shock as it is a relief, electric and overwhelming, the sensation so much more intense without an intervening layer of fabric. His hips twitch forward of their own accord, and Ignis can’t help but gasp as he wraps his hand around his erection, squeezing tentatively. It throbs in his palm, hard and sensitive and _wanting_, and it’s all he can do to keep from groaning as he slides his hand up his shaft, then back down. Up again, and back down, building up a slow, steady rhythm, mimicking the motions of Noct’s hand in this very bed so many weeks ago, and oh _gods_, that feels—  
  
Ignis’s breathing is ragged and shaky when he pulls his hand out of his slacks, clumsily undoing the buttons on his shirt. He feels warm, overwhelmingly so, but he also doesn’t wish to make a mess of his clothing, so he shrugs out of his button-down before reclining back on the bed and lifting his hips so that he can shove his trousers and boxer briefs down his thighs. His erection springs free, flushed and slick with precome. At the sight of it, a hot flood of shame washes through him. _So eager_, he thinks, cheeks burning. But it doesn’t stop him from reaching down again or from giving himself another firm stroke, then another, grazing his thumb over the tip on the next pass. Breath hitching, he tilts his head back onto the blanket. It’s awash with Noct’s scent, musky and masculine, and without thinking, Ignis claws at it with his free hand; he’ll have to redo the bed later when he’s finished, but he can’t bring himself to care as he balls up the fabric and presses it to his face, inhaling deeply.  
  
A soft moan escapes him. “Noct,” he says and feels another gush of precome spill from his cock. He quickens his pace, heedless of the lewd, wet slap of skin against skin as he imagines Noct touching him, working him towards orgasm with short, fast strokes, his eyes dark with arousal and intent. Then, as his hips begin bucking up, chasing the tight, sweet pressure of his hand, he pictures Noct mouthing at the underside of his cock, kissing his way to the top before sucking at the tip and sinking all the way down.  
  
_Astrals._  
  
Lost in his fantasy, Ignis hardly registers the sharp, desperate sounds escaping his throat or the creaking of the bed beneath him. As he rocks up into his fist, he pretends it’s the bobbing of Noct’s head on his swollen cock, or Noct encouraging him to thrust into the wet heat of his mouth, and gods, he’s so close, he’s almost there, just one more, another, yes, there, gods, yes Noct _Noct_—  
  
“Noct,” he groans and comes.  
  
It’s weeks of pent-up frustration and arousal finally, _finally_ coming to a head, so intense Ignis hears himself sob from the pleasure of it. He strokes himself through the aftershocks, his cock spilling slippery and wet all over his fist and stomach. Only when he’s dry does he let his hand splay over his heaving chest, warm and sticky with semen.  
  
“Noct,” he breathes again, eyes sliding shut.  
  
And, impossibly, as if from a distance, he hears a voice, strangled with disbelief:  
  
“_Ignis_?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The alleged “conversation” between Gladio and Noct:
> 
> G: "You gonna tell me what's up?"  
N: "None of your business."  
G: "It's my business when you can't focus. This about your dad?"  
N: "Buzz off."  
G: "All right. So it's about Iggy."  
N: “…”  
G: “Kinda weird he bailed on you for exams.”  
N: "We're done here, Gladio."


	3. Chapter 3

There are some moments that Ignis will remember all his life.  
  
His parents’ funeral, the sun’s kiss a hot brand set against the back of his neck. The weight of his uncle’s arm around his shoulders, sweat dripping between his shoulder blades, and the cicadas buzzing all around as his mother’s coffin is lowered into the ground.  
  
Meeting Noct for the first time in the cold, empty vastness of the throne room, pale light streaking through windows aloof and distant. The warmth of Noct’s small hands against his own, and his shy, hopeful smile, brighter than even the sun’s rays in early spring.  
  
Lying in Noct’s bed with his cock still half-hard between his legs, shirtless, pantless, and splattered with come as Noct stands rigid and motionless in the door of his bedroom.  
  
Ignis makes a noise like a dying garula.  
  
“Shit,” Noct says, looking away. For one wild second, Ignis wonders if he’s having a stroke brought on by sheer embarrassment, because he can’t make out the expression on Noct’s face for the life of him. Then he remembers he removed his spectacles while he was masturbating, and oh gods, this is an utter disaster. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to, uh—”  
  
“Noct, I—” Ignis sits up and reaches for his specs before realizing that his hand is still covered in spend.  
  
Astrals, what was he _thinking_?  
  
“I’ll just—” Noct says while Ignis grabs some tissues and hastily wipes off his fingers. “You, um … you clean up. I’ll be… in the other room.” He exhales a long and shaky breath. “Yeah.”  
  
“Wait, Noct! I can explain.” Ignis shoves his specs back onto his face and lunges for the door, only to trip over his own trousers. By the time he regains his balance, Noct is gone, leaving Ignis alone with nothing but a guilty conscience and a gradually softening cock.  
  
The next ten minutes are some of the longest in Ignis’s life. He wipes himself down as well as he’s able with the Kleenexes on Noct’s nightstand, then pulls up his underwear and trousers, tucking himself back in. His shirt is creased, ruined by his earlier attentions, but he shakes it out before donning it, doing up all the buttons for appearance’s sake. Then, trying to stave off the inevitable, he fixes up Noct’s bed, smoothing out the wrinkled blankets and tugging the sheets tight against the mattress before spending the next few minutes staring out the bedroom window.  
  
Would it be so terrible, he wonders, if he were to fling himself from the window?  
  
But no—that would be cruel to Noct. In any case, the windows don’t open, and the glass is shatterproof. Security protocols, of course.  
  
Far away, in the kitchen, he hears the refrigerator open and close. The sink squeaks on and off, and footsteps pad to and fro, unsettled and restless.  
  
Well, it can’t be helped. Ignis takes a deep breath and squares his shoulders. Then, forcing life into his leaden legs, he goes to find Noct.

* * *

The television set is on in the living room, a somber (but grimly appropriate) orchestral tune spilling from its speakers. Ignis takes in the abandoned controller, the jacket tossed over the back of the couch, and the lonely figure out on the balcony, and for a single, cowardly second, contemplates fleeing the scene of the crime. But Noct deserves better, after everything, and so, despite the dread knotting up his stomach, Ignis retrieves the discarded jacket and, bracing himself, follows Noct outside.  
  
It’s chilly outdoors, brisk and blustery, the tail-end of autumn making way for the winter. Noct’s shoulders tighten as Ignis comes up behind him, but he doesn’t flinch away when Ignis drapes the jacket over his shoulders.  
  
“Thanks,” Noct says, ducking his head. He nods at the distant skyline, limned all in dark rose and blue, as Ignis joins him by the balustrade, a respectable six inches of space separating their shoulders. “Beautiful view.”  
  
It’s an innocent remark, likely unrelated to his bedroom blunder, but Ignis flounders all the same. “I, ah—indeed,” he manages, grateful that his voice comes out more or less even. When Noct makes no further attempt at conversation, he asks tentatively, “Not in the mood for _Assassin’s Creed_, I take it?”  
  
“Nah, kinda distracted. Needed some air after, um—after… yeah.”  
  
Ignis clears his throat and glances away, ears burning. “Of course.”  
  
“Anyways,” Noct says, rallying, “I, uh, thought you weren’t gonna be around tonight. Don’t you have a paper to write?”  
  
“Revise,” Ignis corrects automatically. “But yes, I do, though it’s nothing that can’t wait.”  
  
“Sounds interesting.” A beat. “Uh. What’s it about again?”  
  
Oh, thank heavens. This, he can do. “The history and politics of popular sovereignty in the Lucian kingdom, with especial focus on the past thirty years. An important subject in light of the recent protests over the war.”  
  
Noct snorts. “Looking to overthrow me, Specs?”  
  
“Ah, well.” Ignis adjusts his spectacles. “As you know, it’s always us quiet ones.”  
  
“Oh yeah, you’re _real_ quiet,” Noct drawls.  
  
Ignis hears, in the distance, the shrill screech of braking tires and a tell-tale crunch of metal and glass. A car alarm, sirens blaring. He closes his eyes, face on fire.  
  
“I mean—!” Noct rubs the back of his neck and looks away at nothing in particular. “I just meant—you’re … kinda chatty tonight. That’s all.”  
  
It isn’t what he meant, but Ignis bleakly supposes he should be thankful that Noct is even making the effort. It’s really far more than he deserves. “Noct, if you’d rather I leave—”  
  
“Nah, stay,” Noct says. “It’s fine. I appreciate the company.” He ducks his head again. “Kinda thought tonight was gonna be a dud, honestly, but this is—this is nice. Though, uh…” He steals a glance at Ignis, chewing on his bottom lip.  
  
“… Noct?” Ignis prompts after a few seconds of silence.  
  
Noct looks away again, then wets his lips, a nervous gesture. “Right,” he says under his breath, the word barely audible beneath the roar of the city, then says louder with a forced flippancy, “Uh, I was just thinking—it’s nice but kinda chilly, don’t you think?”  
  
It’s an odd turn of conversation, but, to be entirely fair, neither of them has been navigating this encounter with any sort of grace thus far. “Well, you might try wearing your jacket, for one.”  
  
“Yeah, maybe.” Noct drums his fingers on top of the railing for a few awkward seconds. “Specs, can I—?” he begins. Then, “Actually, just… stay there.”  
  
“Hm?” Ignis starts at the sudden touch of Noct’s hand to his wrist. “Noct,” he chides, half-alarmed, as Noct slinks catlike under his arm, but he doesn’t pull away or otherwise resist when Noct nestles himself in the crook of his shoulder, pressing himself flush against Ignis’s chest and side. The jacket flops forgotten to the balcony floor.  
  
“This okay?” Noct says, glancing up at him.  
  
No, Ignis thinks, a little desperately. It’s absolutely not. It’s unseemly, unnecessary, and altogether too cozy, especially with Noct staring up at him like that, eyes dark, mouth just close enough to kiss.  
  
Ignis swallows. “Of course,” he hears himself say, voice low and hoarse.  
  
Noct’s lips twitch. “Cool,” he says and settles in.  
  
It’s uncomfortably intimate and arousing; Noct’s body feels as hot as a furnace against his own, and every time Ignis so much as twitches, Noct’s hair tickles against his face. Breathing, also, turns out to be a bit of a trial when every breath he takes is suffused with the scent of Noct’s cologne and shampoo—but there’s an odd comfort to it nevertheless, a closeness that they haven’t enjoyed in what feels like a lifetime, charged and forced though it may be.  
  
He doesn’t deserve it, of course, but if Noct wishes for him to stay, in spite of everything, then stay he shall.  
  
Still, it’s not enough. It doesn’t fix anything, nor does it undo all the mistakes Ignis has made over the past several days. As the last vestiges of the sun’s light reach across the horizon, Ignis steels himself and takes a deep breath.  
  
“Noct,” he says, “I … feel I must apologize for my recent conduct.”  
  
He feels more than hears Noct sigh, a slow and heavy contraction of his ribs. “It’s no biggie. ‘Perfectly healthy and natural,’ right?”  
  
It takes Ignis a moment to recognize his own words thrown casually back at him, and when he does, he flushes. “Be that as it may, it was highly inappropriate. I wasn’t—that is to say, I shouldn’t have—”  
  
“Jerked off in my room?” Noct says dryly.  
  
Ignis winces. “Quite.”  
  
“Yeah, probably not,” Noct says. “But, um, it…” He trails off, mumbles something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like _dammit_ before saying, louder, “Look, I know things’ve been—weird lately, and I’ve been kinda… but I was thinking…”  
  
The end of his sentence is lost amidst the rush of the wind and the traffic. “Noct?”  
  
Noct takes a deep breath, hands tightening on the railing before twisting to look at Ignis, red-faced but intent. “I was thinking, it was kinda… y’know, hot,” he says. “And I, uh, wouldn’t mind seeing it again, or… doing more, if you’re—if you’re comfortable with that.”  
  
For a moment, neither one of them speaks. Noct’s throat bobs in the warm light spilling from the living room. His eyes flick away, then back again. “If you’re not, that’s fine too,” he says, a sliver of uncertainty creeping into his voice. “I just thought—I thought—”  
  
“Noct,” Ignis croaks, “are you propositioning me?”  
  
Noct’s cheeks are glowing now, practically afire, but he doesn’t break eye contact. “Yeah,” he says, “I am. Is that—is that okay?”  
  
It is okay? Ignis can hardly believe this is happening. He’s dreaming, or he’s cracked his head on the lid of the washer—or perhaps he truly _did_ leap out the window and is now hovering on the brink of death, lying in a coma in the emergency ward of Insomnia Crown Hospital.  
  
“Uh, Specs, I’m gonna need an answer here.”  
  
Or perhaps not.  
  
Ignis takes a step back, then another, arm sliding out from around Noct’s shoulder. The cold hits him like a slap to the face, but it’s bracing too, impersonal, a reminder of reality. Numbly, he says, “We can’t.”  
  
Silence. Noct exhales, his breath a plume of mist disappearing into the night. “All right,” he says and looks away, shoulders hunched, arms crossed over his chest. The city lights blink back at them, distant and unperturbed, and for a moment, Ignis allows himself to feel the sting of Noct’s quiet acceptance before Noct turns back to him, voice tight. “Okay, the least you can do is tell me why not. Are you—are you seeing someone already? Is that it?”  
  
Ignis swallows, throat dry. “I’m not, no.”  
  
“Then what’s the problem?” Noct says. “You want me, don’t you?”  
  
He does, gods help him—he’s been half-hard in his slacks ever since Noct slipped under his guard and settled himself warm and willing against Ignis’s chest, and the ache has only worsened since then—but his desires have no place here. It has never been about what he wants. “Noct,” he says, “you are the _prince_.”  
  
Noct snorts. “I know. Couldn’t forget it if I tried.”  
  
“I’m your advisor. We can’t—” Ignis fumbles. “It would be inappropriate.”  
  
“Why?” Noct says. There’s a raw, plaintive edge to his words now, and Ignis feels his heart thump painfully in his chest. “It’s not like I’m not allowed to date or to have sex, as long as I’m safe and responsible about it. You know that.”  
  
He does. Years ago, His Majesty decreed that he wished Noct to have as normal an upbringing as possible, and despite protests from the Council, that wish had extended to Noct’s schooling, his residence, his friends—even his romantic and sexual life, should he choose to have one.  
  
Nevertheless. “I sincerely doubt His Majesty had me in mind as one of your potential partners.”  
  
“Well, yeah,” Noct says, and now he simply sounds bewildered. “He was more worried about me knocking up one of my classmates. Think he’d probably jump for joy if I brought you home.” Then, at Ignis’s faint noise of protest, “Okay, so he probably wouldn’t _jump_, but”—Noct huffs out an embarrassed laugh and rubs the back of his neck, a hopelessly endearing gesture—“you’re, uh, kind of a catch, you know that?”  
  
Ignis does not, to be honest. At the moment, he feels like anything but, floundering about in stormy waters he has no idea how to navigate. “Catch or not, there are plenty of fish in the sea, I imagine," he murmurs.  
  
“Yeah, but they’re not _you_,” Noct says. He edges closer, step by wary step, and Ignis sucks in a breath at the soft brush of Noct’s fingers against his own. His palm is hot and sweaty, trembling from nerves, but his voice is steady as he asks, gently, “Specs, what’re you so afraid of?”  
  
And Ignis thinks: So many things. He’s afraid of His Majesty or the Council deciding that what lies between them is too indecent to be borne and tearing him from Noct’s side. He’s afraid of risking their friendship for something as ephemeral as a fling or, at best, a few years of borrowed time before Noct inevitably has to marry.  
  
He’s afraid of losing this—of losing _Noct_.  
  
Ignis swallows thickly. “Noct, if anything were to come between us, I …”  
  
Noct shakes his head. “It won’t.”  
  
“You can’t know that. Our relationship—”  
  
“Is about as weird as it’s gonna get,” Noct says. “And yet, you’re still here. And I’m still here. And neither of us is going anywhere, right?” His fingers tighten around Ignis’s hand. “You came back, even after things got weird. You always do.”  
  
He always will, he doesn’t say. Instead he gazes down at their fingers interlaced in the dark, the curl of Noct’s warm hand against his own. “Whatever we could have… you understand that it wouldn’t last.”  
  
“I know,” Noct says. “And, I mean, maybe it won’t work out. Maybe we’re not compatible or something … but don’t you think it’s worth giving it a shot when we still have the chance to find out?”  
  
They’re the earnest words of someone who knows they only have the here and the now, someone whose future and destiny loom large before them. In the face of Noct's desire, in the face of his _own_ desire and the tangled lust and the heartache lying between them, Ignis feels his resolve waver, then crumble as Noct reaches up to cup his cheek.  
  
“Specs,” he says. “_Ignis._ Do you want me?”  
  
And has he ever truly been able to lie to Noct?  
  
“Yes,” Ignis breathes and allows the gentle tug of Noct’s fingers to guide him down.


	4. Chapter 4

It’s foreign and strange, at first. Ignis has never so much as kissed another person in his life—the thought has only, if he’s being honest, crossed his mind after the Incident—and for a moment, he doesn’t know how to respond but to simply allow it, eyes fluttering shut as he yields to the gentle pressure of Noct’s hands. Their noses bump awkwardly for a split-second, but then Noct tilts his head so that he can press his lips to Ignis’s own, and—  
  
Oh.  
  
It’s a chaste kiss, all things considered—close-mouthed and tentative, softer and warmer than Ignis ever imagined it could be in all his lust-filled fantasies—and it lasts for only a few seconds, if that. Even so, it’s enough to leave Ignis breathless and dizzy with want. When Noct pulls away, he finds himself swaying forward, chasing the sensation.  
  
“Okay?” Noct breathes against his mouth, pressing their foreheads together. He strokes his thumb across the line of Ignis’s jaw, and Ignis leans helplessly into that touch.  
  
“Yes,” he hears himself say, low and rough, and Noct smiles before drawing him back down for another kiss.  
  
How long they stand there on the balcony learning the taste and feel of each other’s mouths and bodies, Ignis can’t say for certain. Indeed, later, all Ignis will be able to recall are brief snatches of sensation: Noct’s tongue sliding against his own, slick and hot, a sharp contrast to the crispness of the autumn wind. The angular jut of Noct’s hipbones beneath his palms and the firm curve of his ass, a revelation after so many nights of denial, and Noct’s soft sound of approval as Ignis finally lets himself _touch_. Noct trailing hungry kisses down Ignis’s jaw and neck, a surprisingly sensitive area that tears a groan from Ignis and a huff of pleased laughter from Noct. The first electrifying press of Noct’s leg between his thighs, both too much and not enough.  
  
It’s the last that draws Ignis back to himself, oddly enough. He pulls away even as his hips push forward, chasing that exquisite pressure. “Noct,” he gasps, swallowing a moan, “wait.”  
  
Noct freezes, mouth stilling against the underside of Ignis’s jaw. He leans back, and gods, he’s—gorgeous, beautiful, lips wet and bruised from kissing. Worry flits across his face, and Ignis immediately wants to chase it away. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to—what’s wrong?”  
  
And it occurs to Ignis that he can still put a stop to this—that perhaps he _should_ before things go too far. But when confronted with the way that Noct is looking at him, eyes filled with hope and fear and something akin to desperation, and the wanton heat of his own erection trapped between their bodies, Ignis finds that he can’t even countenance the idea, not when this is something they both want.  
  
So instead he licks his lips and doesn’t miss the way Noct’s eyes trace the path of his tongue. “Nothing,” he says and raises a hand to cup Noct’s cheek. “I was merely thinking… perhaps we ought to consider a change of scenery.”  
  
Noct blinks at him, then laughs, a little sheepish. “Oh, yeah.” He kisses the inside of Ignis’s wrist, tender and sweet, and Ignis’s breath hitches. “Good plan.”  
  
And perhaps Ignis is making a mistake. Perhaps they’re moving too fast. But it doesn’t seem to matter when Noct takes him by the hand and leads him inside, when he closes the balcony door and presses Ignis to the cool glass, mouth fever-hot and greedy against his skin. Noct’s hands roam across Ignis’s chest, tugging the shirt from his pants, and only when it’s finally free does Noct hesitate, plucking at a button.  
  
“Can I…?”  
  
“Yes,” Ignis breathes and stifles the sudden spike of self-consciousness by leaning in to kiss Noct again. He’s still clumsy and unpracticed, in comparison—the kiss lands a little bit off-center, and their teeth clack against each other for a painful second—but Noct doesn’t seem to mind, judging by his pleased hum.  
  
It takes longer than strictly necessary for Ignis to lose his shirt, mostly because he can’t find it in himself to stop _touching_—still a novel experience after so long—and Noct is easily distracted. His throat is just as sensitive as Ignis’s, Ignis learns, and his skin, once Ignis allows himself to slide his hands up the back of Noct’s shirt, is soft and supple and smooth but for the scar on his back. As Ignis’s fingers trace over the raised flesh, Noct shivers and nips at Ignis’s bottom lip.  
  
“Quit distracting me.”  
  
“Apologies,” Ignis says and withdraws his hands when Noct finishes undoing the last button. His shirt falls from his shoulders to pool on the floor, and Ignis has to struggle not to flush.  
  
It’s not so much that he lacks confidence in his own appearance; he’s a member of the Crownsguard, and as such, he keeps himself in top physical condition. Unlike Gladio, however, Ignis has never been much in the habit of showing off his skin, and the unconcealed desire in Noct’s gaze as his eyes rake over his body is almost too much for him to bear. It’s only with an effort that Ignis manages to not look away when Noct’s eyes finally flick up to meet his again, dark with arousal.  
  
If Noct senses Ignis’s unease though, he doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he hooks an arm around Ignis’s neck, tugging him down for another kiss, this one slower and more languid. Ignis sags into it, grateful for the distraction, and sucks in a sharp breath when Noct’s other hand alights on his chest, his thumb swiping over a nipple.  
  
“Noct,” Ignis says. Moans? He isn’t entirely certain himself anymore, shudders as Noct repeats the action, the contact sending a jolt of need lancing straight to Ignis’s groin.  
  
Noct slides his mouth back to his ear. “Bedroom?” he says.  
  
Ignis’s head spins. Yes, that’s what he wants, exactly what he wants.  
  
But now that he’s faced with the very real opportunity of falling into bed with Noct, the possibility of disappointing him rears its ugly head. Ignis pulls away, forcing his way through the haze of arousal settling over his mind. At Noct’s inquiring expression, he says, “Noct, I—I must confess, I’ve never…” He clears his throat, uncertain how to put it delicately, before deciding on blunt honesty. “I’ve never had sex.”  
  
A beat. “Oh,” Noct says. “Um. With guys?”  
  
Ignis feels his ears burn with shame even though, logically, he knows there’s nothing to be embarrassed about. “Ah. With anyone.”  
  
Noct’s eyes widen for a fraction of a second, but he recovers well enough. “That’s fine,” he says. “We don’t have to go that far if you don’t want to. We can just—” He falls silent when Ignis brings his hands up to cradle his face.  
  
“I want to, with you,” Ignis says, heart thudding. Then, softer: “I want you.”  
  
Noct is quiet as he searches Ignis’s face. Then he smiles. “Okay,” he says and leans up to kiss him again, this time taking him by the hand.  
  
The distance to Noct’s bedroom seems untraversable, but they manage somehow, stumbling through the living room together, stealing kisses and caresses all the while. Ignis has always prided himself on his composure and self-control, but it’s impossible to think past the sensual slide of skin on skin. Lust-drunk and addled, they careen towards the table and then the couch before Noct swears and steers them down the hall and finally, _finally_ into his bedroom. Ignis briefly registers the edge of the bedframe digging into the back of his knees before his legs give out, and he tumbles back onto the mattress, lightheaded and breathless. Catching himself on his elbows, he glances up just in time to witness Noct stripping off his shirt.  
  
Words fail him.  
  
It’s been years since Ignis last saw Noct shirtless, tight clothing and tantalizing glimpses of skin notwithstanding, and now that he’s finally confronted with the real thing after weeks of shameful fantasies, Ignis realizes that his imagination hasn’t done Noct justice. Broadening shoulders, slender hips, and miles and miles of smooth, pale skin dipping over subtly defined muscles greet his eyes. Ignis swallows, throat gone thick and dry. Noct, noticing the attention, flushes, but his grin is less embarrassed and more sly as he tosses his shirt on the floor with a flourish. He runs his thumb along the seam of his trousers, over the noticeable bulge tenting the cloth, and then, eyes fixed on Ignis the entire time, he pops open the button.  
  
And—Astrals, this is happening, Ignis thinks as he watches Noct open his trousers and drag down the zipper with an exaggerated slowness. This is truly happening. Noct is undressing for him. Noct is stepping out of his trousers, leaving nothing but a pair of black boxer-briefs clinging to his hips and thighs, and gods, that’s—that’s Noct’s _cock_ straining against the fabric. This is real, this is _happening_, and Ignis has to remind himself to breathe as Noct slowly peels off his briefs.  
  
A thatch of black hair, startlingly dark against the pale skin of Noct’s lower abs. Noct’s cock, hard and flushed between his thighs, the tip glistening already with precome. Without breaking eye contact, Noct wraps a hand around himself and gives himself a few slow strokes—that moan, Ignis thinks faintly, should be illegal—before kicking off his underwear and climbing into bed.  
  
“Enjoy the show?” Noct says, settling on top of him, and oh, that’s better. Skin-on-skin, Noct’s arms around him, his erection leaking on Ignis’s abdomen. Ignis’s hands, unbidden, come up to rest on Noct’s waist, and without thinking, he slides them down to Noct’s rear, kneading gently.  
  
“Very much so.”  
  
Noct makes a sound halfway between a moan and a laugh as he rocks against him. “Good, ‘cause it felt kinda ridiculous.”  
  
“You were perfect,” Ignis says, completely honest.  
  
Noct grins. “Yeah, well, guess I’m just good like that,” he says, then leans down to catch Ignis’s mouth in another messy, glorious slide of lips and saliva. His hands run up and down Ignis’s torso, sparking fire in their wake, before settling on Ignis’s belt. “Can I take these off?”  
  
Ignis’s cock throbs. “Please,” he says and, before his nerves can overtake him, reaches down to fumble at his belt with shaky fingers.  
  
It’s not particularly graceful, the way Noct scrambles off the bed and starts tugging at his trousers, but Ignis is far too aroused to protest the rough treatment of his clothing. He lifts his hips to help, and Noct yanks his trousers right off. They go flying across the room, the buckle clanking against the floor, and then Noct is sinking to his knees, hands tight on Ignis’s thighs, and any embarrassment Ignis might feel at being so suddenly exposed is lost to the sensation of Noct’s lips moving over the clothed bulge of his erection.  
  
The contact is overwhelming, intense, far better than his own inexperienced hand upon himself even through the thin barrier of his underwear. Ignis jerks in startled pleasure, and he hears himself make a sharp, desperate noise as he clutches at the sheets. Noct laughs, breath warm and moist through the fabric, but he doesn’t pause in his ministrations, continues mouthing and licking and kissing up the length of Ignis’s arousal until Ignis is trembling from the effort of holding himself still when all he wants is to grind up against Noct’s mouth until, until—  
  
“Fuck.” Noct pulls away, red-faced and breathing hard. He hooks his fingers beneath the waistband of Ignis’s boxer briefs. “I wanna taste you. Can I—?”  
  
Ignis doesn’t even wait for Noct to finish speaking before he’s shoving down his own underwear. His cock slaps against his belly as it’s freed, and for a second, Ignis is acutely aware of how shameless and debauched he must look, reclining on Noct’s bed with his legs spread and cock jutting up between his thighs, dribbling precome. His face prickles with heat, but then Noct is taking him in hand and leaning forward, and Ignis suddenly finds all thought and breath and shame far beyond him as Noct licks up the underside of his cock and swallows him down.  
  
It’s his earlier, errant fantasy come true in all its perverse glory: Noct kneeling between his legs, lips pillowed over his cock, breathing harsh and loud through his nose. His eyes are closed as if in prayer, but when he’s taken Ignis down as far as he can manage—when Ignis can feel every small constriction of Noct’s throat around him—they flutter open, dark and hooded. Ignis’s breath catches at the blatant desire in them. He reaches out a trembling hand to run his thumb over Noct’s cheekbone, heart thudding hard and painful in his chest.  
  
“Noct,” he says, voice breaking.  
  
Noct nuzzles into the touch, eyes falling shut. Then, after a few seconds, he begins to move.  
  
It’s obscene and lewd and exquisite, so much better than he ever imagined it could be. Drowning in the wet heat of Noct’s mouth, Ignis can do little else but groan and tip his head back into the mattress as he loses himself to the sweet, velvety glide of Noct’s lips along his length, the teasing swirl of Noct’s tongue over the head of his cock, the drag of his hand against the base. His fingers tangle in Noct’s hair, and he feels, rather than hears, Noct’s low moan of approval. It vibrates straight through the core of him, and it’s suddenly not enough, nowhere near enough. He bucks his hips up, desperate for more. _Please_, he hears, and _more_ and _don’t stop, Noct, gods, please don’t_—  
  
His orgasm crashes over him like a wave, driving the breath from him with its very intensity. Everything wavers, goes white, and Ignis is dimly aware of Noct’s throat spasming around him as he spills into his mouth with a loud groan. Even so, Noct doesn’t pull off, working him through the aftershocks until Ignis flops back to the mattress, dry and spent and boneless, his mind blissfully, pleasantly blank.  
  
“Gods,” Noct rasps. Ignis blinks slowly and watches Noct sprawl out beside him, gloriously naked, chest shining with a sheen of sweat and hair a disheveled mess. “That was—” He breaks off, coughing.  
  
Ignis stares for a moment, uncomprehending, before the implication slams into him. Oh. Oh, no. “Apologies,” he croaks, mortified. He’d pursued his own pleasure, _used_ Noct like he was nothing more than a common prostitute, and Noct—  
  
As if sensing Ignis’s dismay, Noct rolls over to slip into Ignis’s arms. “Don’t. It’s cool,” he says. “Really hot, actually.” He smiles crookedly at his own joke and, when Ignis, still contrite, doesn’t respond, he leans in to distract him.  
  
He tastes salty and bitter—like come, Ignis realizes as he opens up beneath the teasing swipe of Noct’s tongue. It’s disgusting, unhygienic, and yet somehow utterly intoxicating, especially with Noct’s erection rutting against his thigh. After a moment’s hesitation, Ignis lets an apologetic hand wander down between their bodies.  
  
Noct breaks away to gasp into his collarbone. “Tighter,” he says, winded.  
  
Ignis adjusts his grip, and Noct shudders. “Better?”  
  
“Mm, yeah.” Another kiss, sloppy and open-mouthed as Ignis strokes him. “Yeah, like that. Keep going.”  
  
He does, and even though he means to make it about Noct’s pleasure this time, Ignis can’t help but marvel at the feel of Noct’s cock in his hand. It’s a good size, silky-smooth and damp with precome and sweat—not so different from his own in the end, but knowing that it belongs to _Noct_ and that he’s responsible for Noct’s state, for the helpless stuttering of his hips and the soft, escalating sounds escaping Noct’s throat—it sends a strong, heady rush through him that has him growing embarrassingly hard again.  
  
Noct notices, of course; it would be difficult not to in his position, as intimate as they are. “Up for a second round?” he says breathlessly, pushing into Ignis’s hand.  
  
Ignis flushes. An absurd reaction given that mere minutes ago his cock had been in Noct’s mouth. Still, being read so easily and baring his base desires to Noct—it’s still a new and somewhat discomfiting sensation. “It’s—unnecessary,” he says. “You needn’t concern yourself on my account.”  
  
Noct nips at his bottom lip. A hand skates down Ignis’s chest. “Not what I asked.”  
  
Ignis jerks and bites back a moan as Noct’s fingers curl around his erection. “Noct, I’ve already—you haven’t—”  
  
Noct huffs, amused. “It’s not a competition, Specs. No need to keep score,” he says as he coaxes Ignis’s traitorous cock back to full hardness with long, languid strokes that make it almost impossible to concentrate on anything else. “Besides,” he adds, “I, um—I want you inside me.”  
  
The admission feels like a punch to the gut. “Oh,” Ignis says faintly.  
  
“You interested?”  
  
“I—yes.”  
  
Noct smiles and kisses him again before breaking away to reach for the nightstand. He removes a box of condoms from the back of the drawer and presses it into Ignis’s hand—it’s nearly empty, Ignis notes dimly as he opens it—then fishes out what can only be a tube of lubricant. As he uncaps it, he glances at Ignis. “Wanna help?”  
  
Ignis swallows and sets a condom aside for later. “I’ll watch,” he says. If there’s one thing he wishes to avoid, it’s hurting Noct out of sheer inexperience.  
  
Noct shrugs. “Suit yourself,” he says and pours some lubricant onto his fingers before capping the tube and tossing it onto the mattress. “Um. Scoot back, I need some space to work,” he adds, and when Ignis complies, shimmying up the bed until the small of his back rests against the headboard, Noct sprawls back, spreads his legs without so much as an ounce of shame and, without ceremony, sinks a finger deep into himself with a hiss. His head lolls back onto the sheets, and he exhales. “Fuck.”  
  
Stunned, Ignis can only think, _Indeed._  
  
Noct is clearly experienced in these matters. That much is obvious from the practiced ease with which he stretches himself, adding a second finger to the first before too long. Ignis watches him all the while, dry-mouthed and dizzy, eyes drawn down to the glistening hole where Noct is working his fingers in and out of himself to a steady, familiar rhythm that makes his groin pound with heat. How many times, he wonders, has Noct has done this? And with whom? Prompto? Another classmate? Or perhaps an escort, one who understands the importance of confidentiality, or one unaware of Noct’s identity?  
  
But then Noct pants, “Specs,” and Ignis decides abruptly that he doesn’t care. It doesn’t matter, not when Noct is here _now_, naked and hard, grinding down on his own fingers. “Ig_nis_.”  
  
Unable to resist any longer, Ignis crawls across the sheets. He touches a hand to Noct’s calf. “Noct?”  
  
Noct licks his lips. His eyes are unfocused, dreamy beneath the sweaty fringe of his bangs. “Lend me a hand?”  
  
Gods, yes. “How?”  
  
Noct’s throat bobs. “The lube. Just, um, yeah,” he says as Ignis uncaps the tube and drizzles a liberal helping onto his fingers. “Warm it up.” Ignis does as instructed, but when he reaches for Noct’s cock, Noct grabs Ignis’s wrist and gently redirects him further down, past his testicles, to—  
  
Ignis makes a sharp, wanton noise in the back of his throat as he finally grasps what Noct wants from him. “You’re certain?” he says hoarsely.  
  
“Yeah. Just go slow.”  
  
“I—very well.”  
  
Ignis times his first slow push in with the gentle thrusting of Noct’s own digits, waiting until Noct pulls out a little before pressing his finger to the glistening ring of muscle. Noct shudders, breathes out an obscene sound as Ignis pushes in. He feels impossibly hot and tight, but Ignis slips in easily enough, all the way up to the first knuckle and then, at Noct’s encouragement, further still until his finger is fully seated, as deep as it can go, and Noct is panting up at the ceiling.  
  
“How does that feel?” Ignis whispers, cock aching at the sensation of Noct clenching around him.  
  
“Mm, great, just gimme a sec,” Noct says. A long minute passes, and then he's tugging at Ignis with his free hand. “C’mere.” Ignis obeys, stretching out beside him so that they can trade kisses while Noct strokes himself, and when his fingers begin to move again, Ignis tries his best to match him. Their hands bump, and Ignis fumbles the rhythm a few times, too enthralled by the feeling of Noct’s flesh yielding to him, opening to him, but they manage, and it’s not long before Noct is making soft, urgent noises into his mouth.  
  
“M’ready.”  
  
The words send a frission of heat shivering through him. “Are you certain?”  
  
“Yeah.” Noct eases his fingers out of his ass. Ignis follows suit, scooting back when Noct sits up. “You got the condom?”  
  
Ignis locates the packet amidst the sheets, tears it open, and—he knows how to do _this_, at least—rolls it on with shaky fingers. It’s thicker than he expected. A good thing; he might not last five seconds otherwise, recent orgasms notwithstanding. “The lubricant?”  
  
“One step ahead of you.” There’s a click as Noct caps the tube again. He reaches out to grip Ignis’s cock with a glistening hand, grinning at the sudden hitch in Ignis’s breathing. “So,” he says as he slicks him up, “how do you want to do this?”  
  
“Pardon?” Ignis says, transfixed by the sight and feel of his own cock moving in and out of Noct’s palm.  
  
“Missionary? Or do you want me on my hands and knees?”  
  
Ignis’s mind goes blank. When he can manage words again, he croaks, “You decide.”  
  
For a moment, Noct gazes at him in thoughtful consideration. “Got it,” he says and puts a hand to Ignis’s chest. “Lie back.”  
  
What Noct has in mind soon becomes clear when he moves to straddle him. His ass rubs tantalizingly against Ignis’s aching erection, a welcome if frustrating distraction from the nerves knotting themselves together in the pit of his stomach. “Comfortable?” Noct says after he’s settled.  
  
“More than,” Ignis breathes, allowing himself to run his hands over Noct’s thighs.  
  
Noct leans down to kiss him again, grinning. “Yeah, well, it’s gonna get better,” he says, cheekily enough to startle a laugh out of Ignis. He reaches out to tug at Ignis’s specs.  
  
Ignis catches his wrist. “Leave them,” he says. “I—I want to see you.”  
  
Noct’s cheeks glow, but he relents. “All right,” he says and sits up, reaching back to grip him. He lifts his hips and shifts a tad to get into position, one hand splayed on Ignis’s abdomen for balance. “You ready?” he asks, and at Ignis’s nod, he adds, “Don’t move,” before sinking down.  
  
It’s heavenly—the heat, the tightness, Noct clenching around him as he eases down inch by painstaking inch, head tipped back and moaning as his body opens up around Ignis’s cock. Ignis hears an involuntary groan tear itself from his own throat as his entire world narrows to that single point of contact between them. Even something as simple as staying still becomes the most exquisite form of torture when all he wants is more of that delicious friction. By the time Noct bottoms out, Ignis is trembling and panting from the effort of remaining motionless, of not simply thrusting up into the clenching heat of Noct’s body and _taking_ what he wants.  
  
“Fuck,” Noct says. A sigh shivers out of him as he sinks the rest of the way down. He releases Ignis’s cock and braces himself on his thigh before opening his eyes. They’re dark and blurry with lust, and gods, he looks absurdly, mind-numbingly lovely like this, flushed and glistening with sweat, mouth open, chest heaving, every line and muscle of his body on display and taut with tension. His cock, half-hard, rests against Ignis’s belly. He licks his lips. “How d’you feel?”  
  
“Good,” Ignis grits out.  
  
“Just one syllable, huh?” Noct clenches around him, and his smile morphs from beatific to playful when Ignis gasps, fingers flexing on Noct’s thighs, digging in for purchase. “Yeah, must be good if that’s all you got.”  
  
“Noct,” Ignis says, voice shamefully close to a whine. His hips jerk up helplessly in a short, aborted thrust. “Please.”  
  
If he’s embarrassed to be reduced to begging so quickly, at least Noct looks pleased, laughing and rocking his hips forward and back in a deliberately measured roll that leaves Ignis short of breath. “Like that?” he says, repeating the motion, and Ignis drops his head back into the covers, moaning as Noct builds up a slow, steady rhythm.  
  
“Yes, I—yes, that’s—that’s good. Gods, just like that, Noct. Noct, _please_—”  
  
“Fuck, _Ignis_,” Noct says. He pauses long enough to transfer Ignis’s hands from his thighs to his waist and to claim Ignis’s mouth in a forceful, messy kiss before picking up the pace, riding Ignis with hard, sinuous movements that cause all his muscles to ripple in the light and heat to spark all through Ignis’s body. When Ignis begins pushing back up into him, trying desperately to match the rise and fall of Noct’s hips, Noct lets out a throaty groan, eyes falling shut and head tilting back in undisguised pleasure as the bed creaks beneath them. “Gods, Specs, you feel—” He breaks off in a moan as he comes down hard on Ignis’s cock again.  
  
Ignis knows he can’t last, not like this—not with the way Noct is moving around him and taking his pleasure in Ignis’s body, making the noises he’s making and looking as if this moment between them is the only moment that matters in the world. But it’s impossible—unthinkable, even—to slow down.  
  
“Noct,” he settles for gasping, “I’m—I’m close.”  
  
Noct swears. “Me too, don’t stop,” he says, breathing hard. He takes Ignis’s hand and wraps it around his cock. “Jerk me off.”  
  
True to his word, Noct doesn’t last much longer. Between Ignis pounding into him from below and their joined hands working his cock, he comes in due course with a loud moan, shooting hot, white ropes over their hands and Ignis’s abdomen. Ignis makes a choked sound at the flash of blissful pleasure across Noct’s face, the feel of Noct’s body spasming around him, and thrusts up wildly even as Noct slumps, limp and boneless, across his chest.  
  
“Noct—” he says, _pleads_. His rhythm falters, and he clutches at Noct’s ass, trying to pull him closer, trying to get deeper. Astrals, he's nearly—nearly there—  
  
Groaning, Noct hitches himself back up and kisses him clumsily, a wet smear of lips and saliva and teeth against the corner of his mouth. “Don’t stop, keep going,” he gasps, and they both moan at Ignis’s next desperate thrust. “Fuck,” Ignis hears. And, “You’re so close, I can tell. C’mon, Specs, you can do it.” And then, “C’mon, I want you to come inside me.”  
  
It’s the last scandalous entreaty that finally tips Ignis over the edge. His hips stutter up in short, uncontrollable jerks, blindly struggling for _more_, for _deeper_, and then he’s lost, coming. His orgasm crushes him and leaves him empty, shaken-out, fragile and renewed, aware of nothing else but the join of their bodies, and afterwards, as he slowly comes back to himself, the languid glide of Noct’s tongue against his own, the warm, lazy tangle of their limbs, and Noct laughing breathlessly into his hair, messy and happy and altogether perfect.

* * *

When Ignis wakes, he finds, to his mild surprise, that the world has not ended. There are no stony-faced Crownsguard hovering over the bed, handcuffs at the ready to drag him before His Royal Majesty for judgment. He hasn’t been struck down by the collective hands of the Lucii for his impudence, and Bahamut hasn’t even deigned to smite him with the pox for daring to besmirch the honor of the Chosen King.  
  
The spot beside him _is_ empty, however, though the bed is still warm, proof that Noct hasn’t been long out of bed. Blinking the fog from his eyes, Ignis rolls over to check the clock on the nightstand; a quarter after ten or thereabouts. Not even midnight yet. He’s only been drowsing for a few hours, if that, but astonishingly, he feels more rested and relaxed than he has over the past few weeks. The restorative power of sex, he wonders, or simply the relief of unburdening himself and knowing that he’s been forgiven?  
  
A sudden clattering echoes down the hall, drawing Ignis from his thoughts. “Crap,” he hears, soft and contrite.  
  
Oh, Noct.  
  
It takes a moment for Ignis to locate his clothes. His trousers and underwear are strewn haphazardly across the floor, and his shirt is missing in action. After a few minutes of fruitless searching, he reviews his hazy memories and concludes it must have been discarded in the living room, which leaves him just one solution, imperfect though it may be; he goes through Noct’s closet and leaves the bedroom clad in one of Noct’s looser sweaters.  
  
Noct’s in the kitchen, dressed down in his pajamas and surreptitiously cleaning up the remains of some rice spilled across the counter and floor. “Sorry,” he says when Ignis enters. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”  
  
“It’s perfectly all right. May I?” Ignis accepts the rag from Noct and takes note of the half-filled bowl on the counter. “Go set the table. I’ll clean this up.”  
  
“Thanks.” Noct pauses when he finishes filling his bowl with rice. “Um. You wanna join?  
  
Now that Noct’s mentioned it, Ignis realizes he is rather hungry; he wasn’t able to stomach any lunch earlier in the day, wound up as he was about this entire affair, but now faced with the sight and smell of his own cooking, his stomach growls. Noct grins, bumps his shoulder, and reaches for an extra bowl. “I’ll take that as a yes.”  
  
The ease with which they slip back into their routine of old is comforting. Ignis had feared… but no, Noct sets the table with his usual alacrity, then hovers incessantly over Ignis’s shoulder, and if he’s touchier than usual, Ignis can’t say he minds, soaking up the private lingering touches of Noct’s hands to his arm, his waist, the small of his back.  
  
Still, there’s a limit to how much a man can take. “Noct,” he says at one point when he’s trying to plate the meatballs but finds himself short on elbow space. “Would you mind…?”  
  
“Oh, yeah, sorry,” Noct says, backing off just a tad. He takes an appreciative sniff as Ignis takes the lid off the pressure cooker, and a billow of steam escapes. “Smells great. What’d you—?” His eyes narrow as Ignis starts fishing out the meatballs. “Are those meatballs?”  
  
“Flavored with spices and a sauce from Galahd,” Ignis says and frowns when Noct snorts. “Is there a problem?”  
  
“Really, Specs?” Ignoring Ignis’s protest, Noct reaches over to stab one with a fork and waves it suggestively in front of his face. “Kinda coming on strong, don’t you think?”  
  
Ah. Ignis adjusts his spectacles, heat blooming across his cheeks at the unintended innuendo. “Well,” he says, clearing his throat. “I’d say it _panned_ out in the end.”  
  
Noct’s eyebrows rise, but he plays along, a smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah, guess it was a recipe for success.”  
  
“Indeed. One might even call it _a rousing_ one.”  
  
It’s a terrible pun, but it’s worth it simply to see Noct’s face light up as he chokes on a laugh, and besides, it distracts him just long enough to let Ignis shoo him back to the dining table. When Ignis joins him shortly thereafter with his own bowl, the conversation turns easily to Noct’s week, then to the Council, Ignis’s exams, and it’s as if the last few weeks never even happened.  
  
Well, almost.  
  
As they’re finishing up the last few bites of supper, Noct nudges at Ignis’s ankle beneath the table. “So,” he says, deliberately casual as he pushes a meatball around his plate with his fork, “you, um, staying over?”  
  
It’s a loaded question. Ignis thinks of the Council and their disapproving frowns. He thinks of the king and the trust placed in him, the trust he might be, even now, breaking. He thinks of Noct, lying beside him, face pressed to his throat and body shaking with laughter and joy and the aftermath of pleasure. Noct, who’s sitting before him now, chewing on his lower lip, awaiting an answer.

Ignis sets down his fork and reaches across the table to take Noct’s hand. “As long as you’ll have me,” he says, and at Noct’s soft, lopsided smile, he knows that, though their future may be uncertain, in the end they’ll always have each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you made it to the end, thanks a bunch for reading! Hope you enjoyed!


End file.
